


Thin Silk

by Pasywasy



Category: Boruto: Naruto Next Generations, Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Canon-Typical Violence, Dysfunctional Family, Gaara-centric, Gen, Shinki mentioned, Time Travel, more tags to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-07-18 16:02:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16121954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pasywasy/pseuds/Pasywasy
Summary: Many ninjas with guilty consciences have theses thoughts over and over ‘if only I could go back in time,’ to fix things with hindsight, to save the dead and gone. Gaara too, in the middle of the war, surrounded by corpses had once mused on future knowledge and stopping past events.But they’d won, in the end. Men, monsters, god-men, and gods defeated by whatever of those Naruto had become. Madara and Kagura in the past. Gaara, Fifth Kazekage, has loved ones, has his siblings and his son, and is happy.So why is he back in the time of the worst parts of his life?//aka long gaara-centric time travel whump





	1. prologue: the stars are scars in the night sky

A night wind, sweeping grains of sand floating away. There is a high-pitched screaming sound in the background. Empty and filled to the brim. Something heavy and thick is running down his face, over his eye and cheek and chin.

There is a very familiar red smear across the ground, from the gaping hole of a still smoking explosion. _‘Mother’_ , Gaara thinks reflexively, hollowly. There is an answering high howl. The sand sphere drips to his feet, _‘Mother,’_ Gaara thinks again. A reverberating agreement, a yowl, pushing in on him, he can feel the pressure on his head and behind his eyes. 

There’s a pause.

Gaara feels confusion that isn’t his, sliding across his head, he lifts a hand and opens and closes it in a fist, testing the feel of his skin tightening around his fingers. Tiny, tiny fingers. Slowly Gaara slides down, crossing his legs and pushing his tiny, tiny hands into the hard-packed sand below him, the feeling of his city against his skin. With his breath he pushes out the tension, nerves and tightly wound shoulders loosening in the gust of air released. The constant high droning crests again, crashing against his murky thoughts. _‘Shukaku,’_ Gaara thinks clearly, the thought a bell to silence the heavy chaos in his head. 

The overly familiar address has the beast reeling, as the first time Gaara’s ever addressed them like that, as far as Gaara remembers. And Gaara has never, ever forgotten this night. His eyes survey the rooftops around him against the night sky, barely-hidden shinobi poised waiting for his inevitable rampage. There is a part of Gaara, the eternally young, broken and betrayed part, as he looks back at the smear of blood in front of him, that wants to give them what they are waiting for. A wrong-footed Shukaku is loud in their agreement, grasping onto Gaara’s old hurts to twist into a familiar rage. 

But Gaara is not the child that would answer the call for blood. Apparently. Gaara looks distastefully down at his tiny tiny hands and tiny tiny feet. Shukaku, yelling and not to be forgotten, is a master at playing with and twisting Gaara’s emotions into something serviceable but Gaara has long been a jailer. The thought is regretful, but in the face of Shukaku’s mania Gaara must be a cage before he is an aspiring friend. 

In the absence of any properly coherent thoughts, he rubs his forehead with his poncho, the rough material sticking to the blood and scraping across the new scars. He applies pressure, and the blood soaks the material through, Gaara’s baby-soft hands squishing into the wet fabric. He slowly registers other feelings, the throbbing of the first physical pain he’s experienced (at his own hand), the smell of smoke and burnt flesh. The feeling of multiple eyes weighing on his shoulders, heavier with every second he sits here quietly, not the rampaging monster they expect. Uncomfortable in his own skin, Gaara unfolds himself and stands, head wound and graceless child-body causing him to wobble. His eyelids droop. 

Gaara is in the streets of Suna. One foot in front of the other in the beat of his head throbs. The buildings are too tall and the people are shadows against the beige walls. Something is dripping from his chin to his sodden, heavy, metallic-smelling poncho. When his eyes pass across the buildings, the shadows skitter away. His thoughts are the same. Every part of him drums to rest. He remembers sleep, and further in the past than that, he has forgotten it. His foot does not lift high enough on the next step and his sandal drags, causing him to stumble and barely catch himself. There is a pause. A collective held breath. 

Gaara continues to walk. 

At some point, there is a person in his path. A blue robe, standing still and slightly off to the side. Gaara’s eyes drag up the robe and to the person’s face. From his chest to his toes, his body floods with ice. A hot, curled stone lodges in his throat. Something like fear and anger. The man looks at him passively, face blank. Gaara’s eyes dart to the movement just behind the figure- a short boy, in black, with brown hair. He could almost breathe again until he understands the fear on the boy’s face. If Gaara were prone to bodily displaying his emotions, he would throw up at the man’s feet. 

Gaara continues to walk. 

At the point the outside walls loom above him, blocking the stars at the moon, Gaara settles down. His back is to the wall, his legs fold and his arms curl into his lap. He closes his eyes.


	2. blood and water

There are people watching him. It is not an unfamiliar feeling. Gaara opens his eyes.

He is still here. 

Waking from his meditative trance, he surveys the environment in front of him. The guardhouses stationed near the outer wall, shinobi inside peering warily at him from the windows. Other ninjas pressed against walls, any travelling people scuttling past him and as far away from him as possible. The sun is in the sky. Gaara looks down at himself, in his still too tiny child-body. Tilting his head down causes the dried blood on his soft cheeks to crack, and the shift of his shoulders causes his poncho to drag down heavier, still wet and now stinking. Gaara spares a minute to imagine what he looks like, blood smeared across half his face and down his clothes, and the theoretical image mildly amuses him until he remembers that he probably looks like that a lot in this time.

Which brings him back to the problem that he can now think about. 

Apparently, his consciousness has travelled back in time and is now firmly placed in his past body. Right on the night that Yashamaru had “tried to kill him”, lied, caused Gaara to attack the only person alive who’d loved him and then blown himself up. The eve of Gaara’s descent. Because Gaara had gained a sense of humour (questionable) since his childhood, he spends a wry thought to feel sorry that Shukaku will no longer get the madness and blood that he wants. Also, his father, considering that entire thing was his doing. Or- Rather. The Forth Kazekage. It’s questionable that he could have ever been considered Gaara’s father. 

He picks himself off the dirt and sand, and heads towards the inner city. It’s gratifying that his body responds to him properly, and he feels more centred and grounded in his muscles and skin. Gratifying, and worrying, because the more grounded he gets the further and further away the hope that he will not stay goes. The main problem is that; Gaara does not know how he ended up here, so he does not know how he will leave. Because he absolutely does not want to be here. Not when he came from a time when he is past the age of typical ninja lifespan, with a city, with peace, with people that love him- with a son. 

Gaara closes his eyes against the wave of mild grief that goes through him at the thought of not returning to Shinki. More than the renewed fear of his people, the existence of his father and the fear from his siblings, the absence of his adopted son is what he hates the most. Perhaps it will fade with time, as he becomes more ingrained in his environment, the crumbling of Suna’s economy and the hatred of his people, but for now he thinks of Shinki, not yet alive for years, and a soft cold hatred for whatever put him here runs through his body. 

The problem, ultimately, is that they had not lost. In the grand scheme of things, the end goal had been reached and there was peace. So there is no reason for him to be here. 

 

Eventually, Gaara arrives at the Kazekage’s residence. As far as he remembers, his father doesn’t live here, but he had lived here with Yashamaru and his siblings although he was often sequestered to different parts of the building than them. After Yashamaru’s death, he remembers eating with them. He also remembers threatening them. And he remembers, in the same dining room, eating dinner with his son, quiet, eyeing a loud Kankurou who was attempting to tease him like he was an average teenager while Gaara read mission reports over his food. Gaara leans against the wall, soft grief cementing him further in this body and time.  
The emotion passes and Gaara pushes his shoulders back, arriving at the bathroom. Desert bred and born, Gaara washes quickly, scrubbing himself free of blood and explosion-ash, and discarding his ruined shirt and poncho. Finished, he eyes the basin of bloody saved-water, wondering whether he can water his plants with it. His plants that don’t exist. Nevermind. He tips it down the drain, unable to find a use for water tainted in blood and dirt. He bundles himself in a large adult-sized scratchy towel that probably isn’t his, and wanders off into the house to seek out his room to find a new set of clothes. 

As he passes rooms and halls, he catalogues the chakra signatures of the people in the building. There is a sleeping Kankurou and Temari tucked away at one side, so Gaara heads for the other side. There will probably house-help at some point, although it is still too early in the morning. It’s interesting to him that they’d let his siblings stay with an unstable weapon even after he’d turned to proper bloodthirst. The Kazekage must have trusted in shared blood meaning something to a crazed Gaara… And apparently, that trust had worn off. Well, it had for his siblings, but with a faint curl of anger, Gaara cannot imagine whatever kept him from hurting his siblings back then stopping him from hurting his… Father now. Gaara pauses in the hall and considers that emotion, the heat simmering in his torso at the thought of the Kazekage. When Gaara had regained emotions other than fury, bloodlust and pain, the Kazekage had been dead, and not often considered. It’s possible his anger is from the Kazekage’s part in how unstable Suna is as a village, something he’d uncovered during his time as leader. It could be something his child-body holds, much like the fear he’d felt last night - probably due to the Kazekage being the only one able to subdue Gaara at ‘his’ most powerful. But the anger is most prominent when he thinks of the Kazekage as his father, as what he should’ve been instead of what he was. The duty he had to Gaara as a father, a duty that Gaara had understood and willingly taken on, the duty that he had abandoned. Trying to imagine treating Shinki, who was only somewhat less dangerous than Gaara currently is, like the Kazekage treated him, Gaara feels the anger curl in his throat into a sickening lump.  
Gaara pushes into his rooms, something like muscle-memory or past-memory leading the way. He drops the towel and shrugs into some clothes. He tucks himself into a corner, cool in the shadows and out of sight of his ANBU minders. Closed in between the two walls of his childhood room. 

 

There are a thousand thoughts to think in a too-small head. Too many thoughts he cannot grasp, cannot make connections for. Slowly, Gaara tries to unravel the situation around him. 

He is back in time, he is approximately seven. There is no discernible reason for his jump in time considering the peace of his proper time. He could have forgotten something, but his head feels uncomfortable full with future information, not that he is missing anything. It is possible that he will remember as he continues to stay here, it is possible that there is a reason. For now there is nothing he can do to further that line of thinking. Furthermore, if he were back in time for a reason, it would be to change something. Once again, peace. So what would he change? If it were something in the future, that he doesn’t remember, he wouldn’t have been sent back this far. Logically, there is nothing to change.

Gaara closes his eyes, breathing out, his hands resting open on his knees. 

He cannot replay his life as it was. Replaying his life involves too much blood and lost life, too many graves written by his hand. Plus, he has already changed in that there is one less rampage against the Suna streets, having not succumbed to Shukaku’s mania after the death of his uncle. Gaara follows that thread, abandoning the attempt at reasoning why he is here. 

Shukaku. He has Shukaku back. The emotions invoked by this realisation are complicated and not worth picking apart, his stomach flops uneasily. Gaara had forgiven Shukaku, had understood the beast. It is easier to do when said being is no longer rampaging around their shared mind, crying for blood and slaughter. During his night-rest, the beast had made a few attempts to inspire rage and fear, but grew weaker with each ignored attempt. It’s obvious that Shukaku knows something is different, considering they exist in each other’s thoughts and his current silence is probably an attempt to figure out what is going on. Gaara has not changed his mind about the other, he wants to be friends, but even in the future when Gaara had no longer been Shukaku’s cage, they had not been. Plus, the first step toward opening the beast’s heart was Naruto and his friendship with the other beasts. Without that softening, Gaara does not know if he can reach Shukaku’s heart. He is no Naruto. 

Despite the train of thought Gaara attempts to stay on, his thoughts predictably switch tracks at the mention of his friend. If Gaara is here for a reason, all signs point to Naruto having something to do with it. Not only because he is the most ridiculously powerful person that Gaara knows of, he also is the centre of most trouble. That being said, if Gaara is here for a reason, and it has to do with Naruto, what is Gaara supposed to do about it all the way in Suna. 

Gaara curls in on himself, resting his head on his legs. For a few minutes, Gaara stays like that, blinking at his body. Slowly, he unfolds himself from the floor and stretches his arms and legs out. A glance outside shows that it is a respectable waking time, therefore, eating time. Gaara hesitates at his door, his hand small on the solid door handle. Gaara is not the only person in his house. There is a high chance of meeting his siblings, afraid and cowering from him. No, Gaara thinks, opening the door. There is a high chance of meeting Temari, eating at a proper time, and missing Kankurou, who would sleep as long as possible. The thought of his brother, older as he knew him but mostly unchanging, soothes him. 

He reaches the kitchen, hovers in the middle of the room for a few minutes, then takes a couple of slices of bread from the bread-bin and eats them without spread. He figures that they’ll taste like cardboard either way. He drinks water from the tap until he feels boated from the speed at which he inhales it. By the time he leaves, he has not met anyone. The queasiness from his meagre breakfast stops him from figuring out how he feels about that. 

“Where is Yashamaru?” Gaara tips his head to peer at the speaker from the corner of his eyes. The imposing figure is familiar, although Gaara hadn’t recognised him from voice alone. The cold stab of fear through his gut is more familiar than the Kazekage’s voice. Now accompanied by a burning anger. Gaara looks away. Gaara doesn’t know if the anger is all him or part-Shukaku. Before forcefully sectioning the beast away, he’d never known where Shukaku ended and Gaara began. 

Gaara does not hate easily, and he is slow to anger usually, but this man is more the centre of Gaara’s mistakes and pain than Gaara is. Someone had suggested that Gaara’s hate for his father had been born of love, that the strength of his anger required heavily positive feelings to have been twisted to create it. That is not Gaara’s hate, that was Temari’s. Her hate was born of the love of a father with whom she’d walked side-by-side, who’d eyes would sometimes shine with pride for her, who’d sat with their mother and smiled at her, a father that she’d only grown to know the truth of as she’d aged. Gaara’s hate is born from the betrayal of the Kazekage’s duty to his people, and his moral duty to his children as a father. Though, it had only been a flat anger at the memory of him, at the mention of his failures to Suna. Now in the presence of the Kazekage, it is a very personal hatred. 

Before that hate, Gaara can’t remember what he’d felt for the Kazekage. Apathy, probably. Maybe vague respect for the position and power he held. Apathetic Gaara might have answered the question in a dull tone, befitting of lack of betrayal-induced Shukaku attack. Non-apathetic, current Gaara can’t manage to keep his words locked behind his teeth and says, “As dead as you told him to be.” Oops. At least his voice is as flat as ever. The snide phrasing might be someone else’s from a different life after he’d told them the details of that night- last night.

“So he failed me,” The Kazekage says, his intonation similar to Gaara’s. He is not a man of very many words, but he’s probably shocked that Gaara knows about Yashamaru’s mission. Gaara side-eyes him again. Gaara has always been the most physically similar to both of his parents, despite his blood-hair. Despite that, Gaara only sees the embodiment of his past in Rasa. 

“It’s not you he failed,” Gaara grunts, turning back to the sand pit he’s sitting in. He can’t remember why he came here. He has a lot of feelings about Yashamaru and his Mission. The emotions transcend the hot-cold confines of his body, leaking into the now-shifting sands. Gaara can’t stop it when he tries. Chakra aside, sand has always been a part of Gaara’s body, like an extra muscle. 

Gaara doesn’t know if the sand is Shukaku’s influence, or his mother’s, or his own. Or if those are all the same thing. A crumbling wall is built brick by sandy brick between him and the Kazekage. But he is of the sand. It is not currently Shukaku either, the beast flickering between familiar rages and absence in his head, probably confused about the new memories and emotions Gaara obtained between one second and the next lasts night. Confused about the subtle affection Gaara feels for the beast. Their confusion swirls, scraping at the walls of Gaara’s skull and he stares at the blue desert sky.


	3. clutch the sternum to remember this reminder:

It’s been three days since Gaara has been here. He has managed to avoid his siblings and the Kazekage by doing nothing different than his past life except not going to “family dinner”. His siblings have probably heard about Yashamaru killing himself on Gaara, and want to stay further away from him than they already did. The Kazekage is almost certainly mulling over his next assassination attempt on Gaara. If Gaara thought it was possible for the man to see past his own ambitions, he’d assume he’s considering what Gaara’s shiny new “stability” means for Suna. 

“Stability”. Shukaku is familiar. Most of the time the beast is trying to goad him into anger or bloodlust – though staying away from the Kazekage and other emotional hotspots is helping him curb the urge to give in – or screaming incomprehensibly, the usual. Sometimes the beast is quiet, mulling over Gaara’s new personality, and, his stability. Because Shukaku is intimately curled around Gaara’s brain, the beast can hear every one of Gaara’s thoughts, including his memories of a past life. His plans for this life.  
Gaara has tried to talk to Shukaku, but he gets rebuffed at every attempt of a civil conversation. Recently the beast has concluded that Gaara is actually crazy and has created this adult life in daydreams and mocks him for it, despite how viscerally they both feel the memories and emotions. It is frustrating, but Gaara cannot help the affection that warms his chest. Something that Shukaku seems to hate him more for. 

Gaara can no longer sleep – even though in the past he’d remained an insomniac, sleeping a couple hours per night – so he meditates for long periods of time. For a time before he settles down, he runs over his memories, thinking on the past. He does it for himself, and he does it for Shukaku who unconsciously quietens down to watch Gaara’s past. Gaara thinks about his life as Kazekage, about caring for his people, about mission reports and training. He thinks about the desert and his gardening adventures. His mind skitters away from the raw wound of his son. Shukaku, more enthralled (and probably disgusted by the peace and contentment) than they would admit, does not yet latch onto that pain to tear it wider. Gaara thinks about Naruto, fondly. He thinks about phone calls and spars, and does not yet think about the Nine-Tails. Though, he cannot help the undercurrent of kindred in his affection for the other boy.

But Gaara is becoming tired. In the past he’d given in to sleep, because he’d been turned to murder and had revelled in their sleep-heralded rages. Now he wants nothing less than blood on his hands. But he does not want to shut Shukaku out of their shared mind, and become a cage within a cage. He wishes he could give the beast what they want, but there is no one that Gaara can safely unleash them on. The circle continues; Shukaku screams for blood, Gaara does not give in, Shukaku threatens, Gaara does not sleep, Gaara tries to talk, Shukaku ignores and mocks and yells.  
The worst part is that after nearly two decades of his stability, Gaara is starting to want to rage again. In his child-body, emotions are more powerful, more physical. He is more tired and he is so, so weak.  
Two days later, Gaara has no choice but to slam the bars and chains down on Shukaku in his mind, and. Sleep. 

 

When he wakes up, he is groggy. There is someone in his room. Gaara encases himself in a neat little sand-shield-ball, hardens it, then goes straight back to sleep.  
In total, Gaara sleeps a nice ten hours. When he wakes up, he feels like death warmed over. A nice, familiar feeling. He also can think clearly for the first time in approximately a week. Clearly enough that the guilt washes into him when he realises he is going to leave Shukaku locked up until he thinks some proper thoughts. 

The thoughts are as such:  
The man in his room was probably one of his ANBU “bodyguard”. Gaara is not dead by their, and still inside his shield, therefore this thought is irrelevant and is shelved for a later date.  
He still does not know the reason he is back, and it seems like he will stay. He has tested for genjutsu, and discounted it.  
He knows enough about fantastical stories from Temari (adventure books), Kankurou (romance novels and shows), and other sources, that changing one thing in the past probably leads to a ripple effect. Gaara has not become manically homicidal, therefore, he has changed something. Now that he has changed things, he might as well change Other Things. Perhaps the deaths of many people. Maybe the catastrophic loses shinobi have suffered over the years has impeded the future in some way, despite the future-peace, and that is why he is sent back.  
Why he is here is no longer relevant until further information is obtained. 

Gaara will need Plans. Gaara is not capable of sustained logical thought for more than half an hour before his brain becomes tired, and also seems to have approximately zero impulse control. He thinks he’s spent the last week in a daze, playing in the sandpit for some reason that he can’t fathom. Plans will involve Naruto, of course. Plans will also involve his siblings, somehow. Plans will involve the death of Madara Uchiha, Obito Uchiha, and Zetsu. But because Gaara can’t think of a single Plan that solves those issues, he pushes that away until his tiny brain gets with the program. The only thing he can do currently, is focus on himself.  
Gaara looks at his baby-soft baby-hands. That will have to change. In the past, Gaara had been strong. He can be stronger. 

He carefully disintegrates the sand shield, and no one is in his room. However, he is visible from the window, and can feel a flare of chakra as his ANBU escort probably communicates his awakening. Gaara is not being attacked, and therefore doesn’t care about that at the moment. He slides off the bed and wanders out, poking through all the rooms until he finds an unused study-like room. He unearths a scrap of scroll-paper and some writing materials, hunching over on the floor when it becomes apparent he cannot make use of the adult-sized desk. His hands are unused to writing, and the pen is not suited to their small size. At this point in the past, he had been illiterate, but the knowledge of writing has transferred with his time travel. His hands are shaky with the new motions, but he manages to write down Plan Number One: Gaara. He gets momentarily distracted by the letters of his name, and swipes a hand across the still-fresh love scar on his forehead. The wound has closed but he knows that it will remain unnaturally flushed, although it will shrink relatively as his body grows.  
He shakes his head free of the thought. 

The plan, despite the danger of someone discovering it, is written down because of Gaara’s unsatisfactory thinking abilities. Sitting in a sandpit for hours on end is lovely, but it is not productive and he has so much work to do. The plan lists that Gaara must strengthen his chakra control and chakra reserves. In his past, he’d done this naturally by using the sand constantly for death and destruction, plus Shukaku’s chakra is his own. However, it can be achieved faster, and if there isn’t a cap on his abilities, it’s possible to go further. Gaara leaves his ninjutsu abilities at that, because anything more complex will come later, after he can use sustained chakra for more than one hour at a time. That’s the part of the plan that Gaara likes. The next part he is dreading. Physicality. First, he decides, he will treat his body well. This means that until Shukaku is befriended, he must employ the cage strategy and actually sleep, so he can grow and be healthy. He will do it every second or third day, because. The cruelty makes him sick.  
He must eat well, which is not a problem because he lives off the Kazekage’s budget. He knows the bare essentials of cooking, and knows about nutrition, so it will not be a problem. Whoever cooks for him and his siblings will probably be relieved if he kicks them out of the kitchen. His siblings will probably assume he poisoned whatever he makes. Like it wouldn’t be easier to kill people with sand, or a knife.  
Moving on. 

Gaara doesn’t mind training. He doesn’t mind physical training. It is the means to an end, and Gaara has patience and discipline. Had patience and discipline. Also, he had an older body. He comes quickly to the conclusion that he will only do the academy-level basic necessities. First of all, Gaara’s strengths lie in ninjutsu and it is better to hone strengths than to attempt to build on a foundation on nothing. Plus, Gaara had held his own in taijutsu despite his lacking early training, so he has faith that once his body stops being an enemy to himself and he trains harder, his taijutsu will be good enough. For now, he must just make his body healthy.  
Gaara sits back up, satisfied with his glorified basic task reminder. He was probably doing ninjutsu practice in that sand pit anyway, playing with the sand in the pit out of pure muscle memory. But to make any proper progress, he has to stretch his limits. That combined with stretching his physical limits and taking on the task of cooking means that Gaara will be very busy and very tired. Gaara amends his ‘sleep once every 2-3 days’ to ‘sleep every day’, the waves of guilt and regret accompanying the decision weathered with a clenched jaw and wet eyes. 

Gaara tucks his supplies away, within his reach, and folds the note into his pocket. He slips out of the room, noting it for later use and wanders in the direction of the more inhabited side of the house. He pauses in one of the hallways, sits on the floor, closes his eyes and releases Shukaku. He is met by angry screams, and apologises in a mantra. He cannot blame Shukaku, but he makes it clear that as long as Shukaku threatens to wreak havoc while Gaara is sleeping, the cage will stay. Shukaku immediately promises that he will not hurt anyone. Gaara, a lump in his throat and a burning in his eyes, does not believe a single word. No matter how much Gaara wants to agree. The tanuki is not as sly of a liar as they think they are. And in the end, he has to treat Shukaku as an equal, as an entity in and of itself. And in the end, Gaara knows Shukaku. 

It is with a heavy heart and a screaming head and an arm wiping across his eyes that Gaara takes two steps out of the hallway and comes to an abrupt halt.  
Temari turns from where she is hovering uncertainly in front of the door to Gaara’s room. “Uh,” she says, eloquently, voice high. Gaara blinks at her owlishly. His eyes slide from her to the presence of Kankurou, close, but separated behind a wall, and then back to her. Her eyes are wide and her body is turned to the exit. Gaara can taste her fear, unconsciously held close to her chest, but potent, sharp and disgusting. “Gaara,” she tries again. Prideful warmth wars with the sharp shards of pain in Gaara’s throat and chest. Despite her apparent, obvious fear, Temari is so, so brave, facing the monster in her home. Gaara feels sick. 

Gaara is not brave. Because he does not fear much, he has never stood in the face of his fear and stared it down. In the face of Naruto, weak and untrained, but destroying him from his body to his mind, he had attempted to run. In the face of his sister, small, soft, powerless, and utterly terrified of him, Gaara runs. She flinches when he clumsily darts forward, but he is single-minded in his need to leave. He can’t breathe. 

 

That had been an overreaction. But he had been wholly unprepared to see his siblings, especially with Shukaku up in arms and power after a forced absence. He could not mourn the loss of his siblings in front of them.  
He barely remembers how things had changed between them. It was after Naruto’s ‘stop being crazy’ punch, as he dubbed it, but he doesn’t know what changed their relationship. Maybe for a while after, it had been strained between them, but by the time Gaara campaigned for Kazekage, he had the full support and affection of both his siblings. Which was returned. 

Temari had probably been the first to attempt to get close to him, because she is brave and headstrong and as much as she’d like to hide it, caring. In her own way. Gaara had admired her and her strength and had attempted to model his political persona on hers. She was probably where he got his dry sense of humour from, although his tended to be slightly more morbid. Gaara may have ended up as Kazekage but she had been the leader of the siblings, solid and unyielding after she stopped fearing her death at her youngest brother’s hands. When she’d left for Konoha, Gaara had missed her, but he had not ached at her absence. He had only gained another to love when he met Shikadai. They weren’t close, and Gaara had hardly ever seen his nephew but Gaara had loved him from the second a baby Shikadai had looked at him with Temari’s eyes. It was the only thing of Temari’s that her son at inherited, but it was nice to see all the same. Shikamaru wasn’t that bad either. 

And Kankurou had remained at his side for more than half his life. Kankurou had gone to die for him. Not for his Kazekage, not in the same way that Gaara had died for his city, but he’d gone to die for his younger brother. Gaara had not contemplated what it would have been like if he’d been revived to a world without his older brother by his side.  
Though, now he has been. The people that he had shared experiences with, had shared a life with, don’t exist anymore. Instead of affection, they look at him with fear. Gaara will love them regardless, but he will never be able to look at them and not see what was. 

 

The great thing about being Gaara is that people stay away from him. There’s a lot of things to do with that statement that Gaara doesn’t like, and had put effort into changing but honestly his reputation for being not great at social situations serves him well. Little do they know, Gaara has all the social interaction he could ever want in the shape of something big and sandy and intangible. That being said, apart from a shrieking about Gaara being weak or something for his panic earlier, Shukaku hasn’t made too much of a fuss, distracted by the replay of Gaara’s memories of his siblings.  
Now Gaara has commandeered a greenhouse for his own use, done by stepping into it and letting everyone slowly edge out. The greenhouses are in a sorry state; general disrepair, understaffed, and understocked. Gaara casts his eyes at an underwatered succulent. Lack of proper education too for the garden carers, it seems. It doesn’t surprise him, but it does disappoint him. Apparently learning to feed the citizens and understand the landscape in which they live in isn’t important. Gaara knows that Suna is broke, but, there are priorities. 

Trying to revive the plants would probably annoy him, or at least not make him feel any better with the state they’re in. He tucks himself under the bench, huddled near a pot that smells of dry earth. He closes his eyes.

 

Gaara remembers… Some time after the Chuunin Exams, when Kankurou had told him to get a hobby like a ‘normal person’. That’s when Gaara had picked up horticulture. Some time while he was trying to figure out if he liked it, he’d wandered into the dining room at lunchtime, a plant in a pot cupped in his hands. Kankurou and Temari had been sitting at the table, and Gaara had placed the pot in front of Kankurou.  
Kankurou had looked between the plant and Gaara a couple of times, Gaara’s face remaining blank, and had cast a look at Temari. “Thanks…” He’d said slowly, and then his confused expression had started to form a grin, “But shouldn’t you give this to Temari? Girls like flowers, right?” Kankurou had attempted to joke, only to be met with the combined flat stares of both Gaara and Temari.  
Temari was more likely than not to smack him for that, but after the introduction of Gaara to their daily banter, she’d mimicked his perpetually blank face. It worked like a charm. 

“Right.” Kankurou coughs, “Thanks.” He says awkwardly, glancing between Gaara and the plant again before giving the plant a couple pats in case that would appease Gaara’s flat look. 

Gaara eyed Kankurou’s bare fingers touching the seeds of the plant. “It’s poisonous,” He intones, and Kankurou shrieks, launching himself backwards, tipping the chair over and landing ass on the floor. Gaara looks at him. And Kankurou’s hand where it trembles in front of his face. “If you ingest the seeds.” He finishes. Kankurou lets out a whump of breath and slumps into the floor, legs still placed oddly over the chair.  
Temari stands up and peers over the table at her brother on the floor. “Did you shit your pants?” She asks, nose scrunched up. She is ignored. 

“It’s a more potent poison than you currently use… I’m growing more.” Gaara continues, pushing the pot a bit closer to the edge of the table, nearer to Kankurou. Kankurou opens his eyes and mouth, peers at Gaara and scrambles back up ungracefully. He sweeps up the pot, holding it up to the ceiling like he’s presenting it to the gods. His eyes are sparkling, he starts mumbling something, probably about his puppets, under his breath. Gaara shares a look with Temari, who clears her throat. 

“Right!” Kankurou says, tucking the pot safely under his arm and into his side. He turns to Gaara, straightening out his shoulders and puffing out his chest. “Thanks baby bro.” He says, putting his hand on Gaara’s shoulder and squeezing. Gaara blinks slowly.  
Kankurou intelligently decides to make his exit before things scan swiftly swing back into awkward territory and scampers off into his workroom. “Wash your hands,” Gaara says after him, watching him go. The tension in his shoulders starts to unwind, and he lets out a silent huff of breath. 

Gaara tilts his head toward Temari, who’s looking at him with a quirk to her lip. “Make sure you get something cool too.” She says, hands on her hips. 

 

Gaara opens his eyes against the force of the memory, warmth glowing in his chest. He blinks slowly, clearing his vision before tilting his head up and watching the woman that had entered the greenhouse. A ninja, and one of the people taking care of the plants. Probably a medical ninja, considering the only people taking care of plants at this point are poison users or medicine users.  
He catches the woman’s eye and she freezes, halfway through tipping nutrients into a pot. He watches her eyes flick to his hair- he sees the recognition. There’s a moment of silence, but she eventually, jerkily, moves her face away. Her eyes are wide as she goes back to her duties, her hands shake and water flicks over the pots’ edges, wasted on the benches. He tallies her mistreatment of the plants in his head, but says nothing. Her fingers skitter over the poisonous plants, and her eyes dart to him and away.

They stay in each other’s company for the next couple hours. She avoids the plants in the area where he is huddled. He does not move, and she does not relax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u for the comments so far! they are helping me power on >:)


	4. in my blood, in my wishes, I cannot give it up

Gaara dislikes everything about being in this room right now. Over the last week, Gaara had taken to an early breakfast and a late dinner to further avoid his siblings. Their first interaction had scratched at the raw wound of their loss, and Gaara could not account for his emotions if they met again before he felt adequately prepared. So he’d avoided them and continued with his meagre training plan, spending his days stretching his physical limits in the roof sand pits. It was there that he’d been approached by an ANBU member with instructions to go to the Kazekage’s office. After Gaara had confirmed, the shinobi had not stuck around.   
So now he is here, in the Kazekage’s office, standing closer to the back corner than the centre, which was where Baki, Temari, and Kankurou stand. And the Kazekage, sitting behind his desk in his robes of office, watching them. There are ANBU in reach, but no one else in the room. Gaara avoids eye contact, staring through one of the little portholes that functioned as windows. 

“This week, you both,” The Kazekage is talking to Temari and Kankurou, “were given special academy exams. You passed, and as such, have graduated to genin rank.” He says, voice flat. Gaara visibly starts, ‘This early?’ There’s a clink of metal on wood and Gaara’s eyes dart to the two Suna forehead protectors displayed on the desk. “I have judged Gaara to be genin level and therefore the three of you will form a team and Baki will be your teacher.” There is another clink. ‘Genin level?’ Gaara thinks, scowling at his new forehead protector. ‘At this point in time I couldn’t read’. Apparently after judging him sane and assessing his power level via the ANBU minders watching him practice, nothing else matters. Such is the life of a weapon and not a child. He can feel the stares of his siblings. “You won’t be sent on any missions yet, and you will focus on integrating together as a team.” Gaara feels another set of eyes on his shoulders and he sets his jaw, unwilling to look the Kazekage in the eye. So, a grace period to get him up to actual genin level, then. At least, Gaara hopes there’s some kind of logic happening here. 

There’s a silence, and a distinct feeling of something missing. 

Baki breaks the tension, giving a confirmation, bowing in response. He takes the three forehead protectors off the desk and hands them to Temari and Kankurou. A shadow falls over Gaara as Baki stands in front of him, blocking him from the Kazekage’s gaze. Gaara’s eyes slide down at the offered forehead protector. He curls his hand around the metal and cloth, with slow, deliberate movements, and nods in thanks. He looks at the item, distracted for a moment. The metal is cold and shining, the fabric has no tears. He hasn’t worn a Suna forehead protector in years, not having to announce his allegiance because it was fairly obvious, as he wore the Kazekage robes. Gaara’s thumb slides over the indent of the symbol in the metal. He does not want to be the Kazekage’s weapon.   
He looks to his siblings, Kankurou still holding his forehead protector, and Temari having already tied hers around her neck. Without a gourd and gourd-strap, and unwilling to cover the scar on his forehead, Gaara ties it around his neck as well. Temari glances at him before she follows Kankurou and Baki out of the room. Gaara is momentarily stuck between waiting a few paces so he doesn’t spook them, or leaving the Kazekage’s room as fast as possible. He is not stuck between decisions for long. It is no small deal to ignore the heavy stare following him out. 

 

It is indescribably hard to look his at his siblings and see something softer, afraid and so incredibly easy to destroy. The first training session has Gaara tucked half into the shadows of a building, watching his siblings instead of participating. They are tense, nerves causing them to stumble and waver every time they remember Gaara is watching. Kankurou tripping over his own puppet’s limbs would be amusing if it weren’t so devastating.   
Gaara sees echoes of future fighting styles in their current moves. And he sees techniques that will later become obsolete. Both of them had been masters of their disciplines and now they are children still fumbling the basics. Temari isn’t even using her proper fan, because at this point it’s taller than her.   
Gaara doesn’t take to the field, he sits at the opposite end and trains like he usually does, working on his chakra control for small, precise moves, and stretching his chakra in big sand movements to push his limits. None of his sand goes near Temari or Kankurou, but some movements still spook them. Baki seems to be of the same mind as Gaara, letting him do as he pleases until the other two become comfortable with his presence. 

He makes his first appearance at breakfast after a few training sessions. Temari greets him quietly and steps carefully around him. There’s a certain radius around Gaara that she won’t enter into, but seems interested in watching him fumble around the too-high kitchen cabinets for food. She doesn’t flinch when he has to use sand to get to the higher cabinets. Kankurou’s eyes are mostly closed and it takes him twenty minutes to realise that Gaara is sitting opposite him at the dining table. When he does, half of his bite of food falls back out of his mouth and Temari makes a disgusted noise, whacking him on the back of the head. The rest of the bite of food is coughed out after that. Temari and Gaara simultaneously push away the rest of their breakfasts, appetite lost. 

Temari and Kankurou are both, apparently, past Academy standard sets, and instead of balancing training in every area, they focus on their strengths. As all three of them are long-range fighters, it isn’t the best plan, but they are all young and showing obvious talent in certain areas. And Suna only cares about pushing talent, not teaching skills to keep their shinobi alive. Gaara’s not sure about what the change in academy graduation age will do to his sibling’s fighting styles. He’s primarily assuming that their teamwork will be better at the expense of other basic skills. He has faith that Baki will do his best to put that straight, and until then, Gaara will just have to keep his siblings alive. 

 

“Did you kill him? Uncle Yashamaru?” It is more of a demand than a question. Gaara looks up at Kankurou, hands balled into fists, looking down at Gaara and attempting to hide the fear on his face with anger. Temari stands a few steps behind Kankurou’s shoulder, watching warily.   
“No.” Gaara says flatly, looking back down at the sand. There’s a quiet, and a shuffle of footsteps, but Kankurou and Temari don’t leave. When he looks back up at his brother, he sees a slightly constipated look on his face. Gaara, with all his years of living by his brother’s side, assumes this means he has something to say and doesn’t know how to say it. “He tried to kill me, I defended myself, and then he detonated an exploding tag vest.” Gaara continues, filling in the blanks that he assumes Kankurou is missing. 

“What! Why did he try and kill you?” Kankurou blurts. Again, demanding rather than asking. Gaara blinks slowly and looks back down at the sand. Thinking back on it, had he ever told his siblings about this particular revelation? He’d learnt the information during the war, and, honestly it didn’t particularly have anything to do with them. Apart from the loss of a family member.   
At the time, Gaara had immediately forgiven Yashamaru. Or, at least found nothing to blame. But now Gaara is wondering what kind of person puts those orders above someone they loved. What had Naruto said? Something about shinobi who forsake comrades for the sake of the mission are the scum of the earth? Sounds right. Nothing could make Gaara obey an order to die at Shikadai’s hand and traumatise the poor kid forever. Even though Shikadai had other supportive figures and actual friends as opposed to Gaara.

He’s been mulling on how he currently feels about Yashamaru for too long. He belatedly becomes aware of the awkward silence when Temari clears her throat. She repeats Kankurou’s question, but quieter, her voice tight. She steps forward to stand at her brother’s side. “He was ordered to.” Gaara’s eyes flick between his siblings, before he turns to the setting sky. “By the Kazekage.” There’s protest from the children and once again Kankurou demands answers. Gaara has to pause to take the time to arrange an explanation in his head. “There’s… Someone inside me,” he says, settling his hand on his chest in demonstration, “and when I get angry or upset, they come out.” Kankurou frowns but Temari straightens. She regards Gaara with all the seriousness of a ten-year-old, then leans to whisper ‘the monster’, to Kankurou. She is quiet, and had Gaara been anything other than a shinobi, even with child-ears, he would not have heard her. Shukaku rumbles at the back of his head. “It was to see if the monster would come out or not when Yashamaru…” Gaara trails off. The true devastation that night had not come from Yashamaru’s death, but his words. Words that Gaara doesn’t particularly want to repeat or remember.

“Wait- So. So… Uncle Yashamaru died for… A test? What?” Kankurou blurts, and Temari doesn’t even bother to elbow him quiet, too busy with her own shock. “That’s… Stupid!”   
And yeah, that’s it isn’t it. Sending an ANBU captain to death for a test which would again unleash a beast that you shouldn’t want to unleash in any circumstance. Even past the worldview of a child, it doesn’t stand up to logic. It is, as Kankurou so eloquently put it, stupid. 

Gaara turns back to the sand. 

 

When Gaara is not with his siblings, he wanders. The streets of Suna are no longer friendly to him. The people are hostile but their fear stops them from acting against him. Shukaku hisses at them while Gaara passes, both pleased in their fear and angry at their whispered words. It aches something deep inside him, but it’s the memory of his past that stings more than the current situation. Because he knows it can change. Because he’s not the monster they think he is, and he knows that for certain.   
He hangs around the greenhouses among the plants during the hot midday hours when everyone is resting away from the sun. He doesn’t expect it to change much, but he does what he can for the greenery; writing notes about proper care, and feeding the plants properly. Suna’s people are proud and won’t take kindly to an unknown stranger telling them that they’re doing their jobs wrong, but it is all he can do. It would probably be worse if they did know who he was, although he might actually be obeyed if only out of fear of the retribution.   
Otherwise, he hangs around the forgotten slums at the edges of the cliffs. There are less people here, it’s where the orphanages and lower-class housing buildings are. He does what he can for the structures, though he has no ability to make clay, just hard-packed sand, and rock-earth. There’s evidence of Shukaku’s rages that remains unrepaired and he does what he can for that too. He makes sure he does it during the time of day where not many people are around, because while it wouldn’t make that much of a difference, he doesn’t currently have the constitution to listen to screams and harsh muttering. It’s all he can do to ignore it. 

 

It’s in the streets that he hears whispers. The talk is free in the mouths of shinobi who don’t notice he is there – while he is small, supressing his chakra and under a mild genjutsu (a lot can be said for making his hair sand-blonde instead of blood-red). Sometimes there is talk of the monster, by which they mean him and not Shukaku, but he isn’t so concerned with that. His attention is caught by the whispers that even he strains to hear. That he only hears because he already knows these secrets.   
High level shinobi dying at the hand of missions that should not have gone wrong. The circumstances too obvious in the sabotage. Suna shinobi are not stupid. There are some who suspect what Gaara knows to be true. But many of them cannot believe it past the institutionalised respect for their village and leaders. Respect and trust, obedience. Taught to be given to the village as a concept rather than the people. Their loyalty prevents them from connecting the last damming thoughts. Prevents them from condemning the Kazekage.   
Gaara had first found out by going through the documents while he was Kazekage. There were no official documents, but it was not hard to connect the dots with only sloppily covered evidence. That’s when the anger had first started to build inside him. He’d taken the Kazekage mantle to protect the people of Suna, despite the monster he’d been. And yet the Yondaime actively destroyed their shinobi ranks, putting himself above not only individuals but the village as a whole.   
Now, Gaara’s cold anger starts to bubble hot. 

 

“Why do you… Kill people?” Temari asks quietly from beside him. They are both sitting on the edge of the building, the night breeze soft around them. She winces at her own phrasing, and Gaara almost wants to raise his eyebrows. He is far enough removed from his past that he doesn’t feel anything from the question. Only a struggle on how to answer it.   
He remembers the bloodlust of his teenage years, destruction to prove his existence. A flimsy reasoning that had been the result of him desperately clinging for a reason to be alive in the wake of his own father and uncle trying to kill him. He remembers murdering and killing because that was why he was born, and because the only positive attention he got was from Shukaku praising him for the carnage. Though even then Shukaku was hard to satisfy. 

But before then he doesn’t remember why. An… Accident? Gaara furrows his brows, looking at the stars like they have the answers he’s seeking. Temari is patient but Gaara attempts to give her an answer anyway, the words coming to his head before he really knows what he’s saying. “It’s… Like.” He lifts his arm, looking down at his chubby child fingers, clenching and opening them in a fist. “Reaching out for someone, but your hand is bladed and sharp like a kunai.” He says, hesitant in his botched explanation. An attempt at explaining that the sand has always been just another part of his body, but too dangerous and uncontrolled. 

“So… An accident?” Temari says, her thoughts echoing his own. She watches Gaara’s hands, before her eyes move back up to his face and they lock gazes. Something in Gaara’s chest shifts. Eyes never change as people age. He nods in response and she hums, turning back to the stars.   
Gaara hopes that is the correct answer, and it had not been Shukaku. 

 

Today, at training, there is a visitor. An audience. Unwelcome.  
The Kazekage stands beside Baki as the siblings file onto the training grounds. It sets Gaara on edge instantly, his shoulders locked and stiff. He folds himself onto the earth at the opposite end of the training grounds from the two men, with his siblings between them. Temari and Kankurou are about as nervous as they were when Gaara first started attending, but there are less mistakes in their training routines. They seem eager to impress.   
The Kazekage does not look at them. 

Gaara can feel the constant heavy weight of his eyes. He keeps his body half-turned away from the man, even when he joins Temari and Kankurou in their exercises. He provides them platforms for acrobatics, he provides quicksand and shifting dunes for chakra control, and when Kankurou and Temari face off against each other, he provides small tricks to trip them and turn the tide of the battle. Gaara does not engage in the battle, as his repertoire is full of moves to murder and maim, not suited for friendly spars against children.   
Temari and Kankurou are already too-used to each other’s fighting styles, and they often end in draws or stalemates. Unable to stand to Gaara yet, they would benefit from sparring against other shinobi, but it is unlikely. They are further alienated from their peer group by their earlier graduation, and any shinobi too powerful to fear death or loss at their hands is… 

“Gaara,” He hears, and every single part of him stiffens at the sound. He looks at the Kazekage out of the corner of his eyes, gaze fixed on the bottom half of his face. The Kazekage has moved closer, to the opposite side of the training ground to where Temari and Kankurou have paused in their fight and is about as close to Gaara as they are. It is a shock to Gaara to realise he is unconsciously leaking killing intent. As soon as he notices, it starts to flow out deeper and darker. It’s a slippery slope, and he struggles in the cool wash of anger that accompanies the thoughts of the murdered Suna shinobi. But Gaara is a pacifist, and an uncoordinated child. His meagre puddle of killing intent does not compare to the ocean of the Kazekage’s. Gaara is nearly bowled over by it – suddenly hit with a fear so deep and bottomless. It is only that fear, and not strength, that keeps Gaara standing. His legs are locked in place, his arms are stiff. Cold sweat pools under his arm pits, on the back of his neck, on his forehead. He doesn’t know when he last breathed. It is the most scared he has ever felt. Even the calm logic of knowing he will not, cannot die by this man’s hand fails in the tide of Gaara’s emotions. And yet there is one thing that matches the fear, that pushes against it and swirls around it – anger. Gaara is a pacifist, but he wants nothing more in this moment to kill that man. Or maybe these thoughts and feelings are not his own.

Gaara’s finger twitches. 

He flinches at the movement of the Kazekage’s arm before a wave of gold takes over his vision. His legs protest at the sudden movement of jumping away from the danger, and he falls to his knees in the soft sand. He sends a wave of sand to combat the next attack, but he needs double the amount of sand to gold to be able to fend it off. He attempts to overtake control of the gold wave, knowing his chakra is denser and has a slightly acidic quality, but it fails.   
He shoves to the side, rolling onto his back, his sand-shield failing under the weight of the next gold wave. He pulls at the sand to slide himself away from the continuing reach of the gold. He is small, and the gold heavy, so he is fast. He flicks a push of sand at the man, forcing him to drop the gold following Gaara in favour of protecting himself. It gives Gaara enough time to right himself and scramble away. There is not far he can go, they are situated on the training building roofs near the training fields on the cliffs. Even if he could run, there is something in his head turning him to fight instead of flight. Or rather, someone. Gaara is half panicked, and his body is eager to obey the only thoughts that currently make sense. 

He keeps up his weak assault on the Kazekage, wanting him on the defensive instead of chasing Gaara with the gold. But he is a child, small and tired and terrified, and it is not long before the Kazekage becomes bored of entertaining his pitiful attacks. The man has not even bothered to move from where he is standing. The Kazekage dismisses the sand plaguing him and re-pools his gold. Shadow encases Gaara as the height of the wave blocks out the morning sun, and Gaara looks up as the sky is slowly washed out in favour of dull gold. His shield attempts to protect him, but mother cracks under the weight and he is knocked over.  
The gold crushes around him, the weight of metal pressing against his sand-covered arms, cracking his skin, the metal scraping against his arms. Before the gold can snake in underneath him, Gaara pushes himself into the sand below him, moving through the grains like dense air until there is a elayer between him and the gold. He has a single moment to recover before he feels the shockwave of the gold compacting in on itself, a golden desert burial. And, upon realising Gaara had not been crushed, the wave pushes down on the ground of sand. Gaara flinches, a sharp point of fear bisecting his torso for a hot second. The gold pushing down on him from above, pressuring his ribs, suffocates him. Hot panic seizes him, he scrambles and digs himself away, for any way to escape. He doesn’t know up from down, it is only his instinctual knowledge of sand and the clay of his city that drives him to the edge of the structure he’s sunk himself into, past the soft sand above and out to the side. He resurfaces with a gasp, a greedy gulp of air and a hiccup. Some of the building slides out around him, displaced by his frantic tunnelling through the walls, and his panic has shot his chakra control to the point he is slowly slipping down the outside wall of the building. His hands and knees push against the sand, flaring weak bursts of chakra to try to adhere him to the surface. It doesn’t work, but his descent is slow. 

He slides to the ground. He coughs weakly, saliva dropping onto the ground below him, along with a single tear of terror. His breath refills his lungs in gasping inhales around hiccups. Gaara slowly pulls himself to his feet with a hand on the wall. He wipes his mouth and face, coughing again to clear his throat. A sudden shock causes him to stumble, his knees wobbling, only held up by the hand on the wall. He looks up to see the Kazekage looking at him from the roof of the building. His face is shadowed and Gaara can feel his scorn, lazy but piercing. The Kazekage does not chase him as Gaara pulls himself along the street with crumbling steps. 

 

He arrives home in the afternoon to Temari and Kankurou sitting at the dining table. Temari stumbles to her feet with a call of his name, and Baki looks up from where he is putting the last of the bandages on Kankurou’s arm. Gaara winces at the sight of metal-scrape on Kankurou’s arm before it was hidden. He’d forgotten that they’d been on the training grounds when the attack had started, and they must have got caught up in it. He selfishly hopes it is only metal-scrape and not sand-scrape.   
He is beckoned over by Baki, who kneels before him when he sits on the chair. He sits there quietly, head down while Baki tends to his own, somehow minor, injuries. Finally, the tension starts to leave his shoulders, surrounded on all sides by familiar, comforting figures. Temari’s slightly bigger hand enfolds his own in a soft grip, and he holds on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait :)  
> please tell me what you liked and what you are looking forward to thankyou


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